


Whatever It Takes

by Valeria2067



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: John Watson's War, M/M, Multi, Post-Reichenbach, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-04-30
Updated: 2012-12-09
Packaged: 2017-11-04 14:39:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 12,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/394983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Valeria2067/pseuds/Valeria2067
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock, independently of each other, end up trading sex for information after the Fall. Sherlock assumes a new identity as a high-end Male Escort. John plays a much more rough and risky game. Neither knows the what the other is sacrificing, or why.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Whatever it takes._

That had become John Watson’s motto, the slogan emblazoned on his shield as he fought his solitary war, every day, every minute, for the past year and a half.

_Whatever it takes._

Usually, it meant breaking the law. He didn’t care. Quite often, it also meant breaking someone’s arm, or leg, or jaw. Didn’t matter. If it brought him closer to proving that Moriarty HAD been real, and that Sherlock HAD been the man John knew, then the law, his Hippocratic Oath, all of it… all of it could go hang.

_He was willing to do whatever it took. Willing to burn._

When it came to bribery, he found his situation strangely complicated. There was a reasonable amount of money from the estate. John didn’t need much to live on, anyway; he only wanted enough food, enough shelter, enough rest to keep going for the next day. Only his fight mattered.

_The rest was transport._

And John Watson allowed himself no caring, practical friend to make him eat or sleep; that’s the way he wanted it. Others could help, sure, but this was his war, for him to fight. Alone. And to the end.

_Whatever it takes._

Bribery, then. He was surprised, truly, genuinely surprised, the first time a potential source asked for a special kind of payment. It took a moment to register what was being asked of him.

“You’re an attractive man, Doctor Watson. And you have a fire inside you. Those are both desirable things. Very hard to find. Why don’t we discuss, well, a barter arrangement?”

“Barter?I don’t follow… what are we trading?”

The other man’s eyes narrowed as he scanned the moderate distance between the toes of John’s shoes and the crown of John’s head.

“Oh. Oh, right.”

John surprised himself with how quickly he replied, once the offer was understood.

“Where and what time, then?”

The other man smiled and laid a hand on John’s arm.

“I’ll send a cab for you, shall I? Later this afternoon?”

John nodded curtly. A soldier’s acknowledgement.

“And, Doctor Watson, I have many other contacts who might be of great use to you in your… search. I am sure they would also be most willing to trade their information in similar fashion.”

John nodded again, and remained silent, expressionless.

_Whatever it takes._


	2. Hide in Plain Sight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the Fall, Sherlock uses his body to gain access to information. Victor Trevor, a man from Sherlock's past, provides him with the clients he needs.

After enduring scandal, “suicide,” and the pain in John’s face afterward, Sherlock knew he could bear anything, do anything, to end Moriarty’s network and to protect the most important friend he had.

He was willing to burn. Willing to do what other people wouldn’t do.

Willing to turn to the man he’d once trusted and then left behind nearly a decade ago.

“Victor,” he said, his voice even, his gaze determined, “I need a favour. I need you to hire me on as one of your rent boys.”

Victor nearly choked on his brandy. “Sherlock!”

“Escorts, prostitutes, whatever you call them. I need to hide, but I also need access to information. I happen to know that many of your clients are privy to exactly the sorts of details I might need.”

After a few seconds of stunned silence, Victor set his drink aside and leaned forward, closer to Sherlock’s chair. He placed a hand on Sherlock’s knee. “You’ve considered this fully? All the implications, the risks?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Right,” Victor admitted. “You would have done. Then listen: my employees are high-end professional Male Escorts. They are not rent boys. And we’ll need to change your look a bit.”

“Obviously.”

“Perhaps try ginger to start? We’ve had quite a few requests for gingers. And I’ll want you to put on a bit more muscle.”

“Agreed.”

“Well,” Victor sat back and folded his hands. “I’ll have my people set you up with rooms at the club, a stylist, and a personal bodybuilding instructor.”

“Thank you.”

Victor’s eyes swept up and down Sherlock’s long, lean form. “I have one request, however. When you’ve finished your transformation, I’d like you to be photgraphed with me. Completely clothed, completely tasteful. I just… I want to have something to remember you by when you leave me again.”

Sherlock nodded, already planning, already calculating exactly who and when and how often. He would let nothing keep him from his goal.

And what did this body mean, after all?

The only thing that mattered was ending the threat from Moriarty’s men.

The only thing that mattered was protecting his friend and colleague.

The only thing that mattered, in fact, was John.

The rest was transport.

 


	3. The Rest is Transport

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock, independently of each other, end up trading sex for information after the Fall. Sherlock assumes a new identity as a high-end Male Escort. John plays a much more rough and risky game. Neither knows the what the other is sacrificing, or why.

_Fine._

_Let them touch._

_Let them look at touch and taste all they like._

_It doesn’t matter._

_Only clearing Sherlock’s name matters._

“Your scar. Does it hurt when I press it, John?”

“No. It’s okay.”

“May I bite it?”

“If you like.”

_Let them bite, too._

_I already have three more solid leads, now. I’m that much closer to proving Moriarty was real._

_Compared to Sherlock’s name, w_ _hat does it matter?_

_What does pain matter, now?_

_What does this body matter?_

_It’s just transport._

 

oOoOoOo

 

“You’ve a lovely voice, and such an endearing hint of your Irish accent. Do you sing as well?”

“On occasion, yes, I do.”

“I’m sure you sing divinely, with a long, beautiful throat such as this.”

“That’s very kind of you to say.”

“I’d love to hear you sing as I press my fingers against your throat.”

“Of course.”

_Let them touch_

_Let them touch and kiss and fondle._

_As long as they talk._

_And how they do talk… Talk of nothing, so they think._

_They have no idea._

“You have fine physique, Seamus. Could you remove your shirt? ”

“With pleasure.”

“Come closer; you’ll be more comfortable here in bed.”

_Let them touch. And grope._

_Let them press and prod._

_Doesn’t matter._

_Two more operatives in Moriarty’s network are effectively compromised. They’ll be quite easy to neutralize, now._

_Well worth the physical sacrifice._

_Well worth the small, fading marks each time._

“My darling, what colour ARE those spellbinding eyes of yours?”

“They are any colour you like.”

_And they see everything_.

_And everything they see brings me closer to ending the danger for John._

_Nothing more than that matters._

_Not this body._

_It’s merely transport_

__

 

oOoOoOoOo

 

“I want you naked, John. Now.”

“Not a problem.”

“Damn, you’re a big one, aren’t you?”

_Let them look._

_Let them leer and pull and grab._

“What if I wanted to hit you, John?”

“That depends. Do I get to hit back?”

“Oh, I certainly hope you will.”

_Then let them hit._

_Let them shove, and be shoved._

_And let them think I’m not holding back._

_Let them take what they want._

_Whatever they want._

_Whatever it takes._

_I will make this whole bloody world see the truth._

_And then I can leave it._

_Just like he did._


	4. Endurance

"Thank you, John. And please, feel free to stay here for a while after I leave. The room won't be needed until tomorrow."

John nodded. 

He didn't intend to stay any longer it would take to shower and put a few bandages on the places that were still bleeding.

"I must say, I'm surprised at your abity to endure. Not just pain, either," the tall, blond man laughed.

_Pain? You think anything tonight can compare to real pain?_

_Didn't think they let people that stupid manage multinational corporations._

John felt a strong, soft-skinned hand slide down his back and settle on his left hip.

"May I see you again?"

"Depends on what information you have to offer."

"What if I have other things to offer? You know the kind of money I have. I own several luxury flats that just sit empty. One of them could be yours, rent-free for as long as you like."

"No, thanks."

"No?"

John turned around and removed the trespassing hand. "You know I don't do this for money. Or any other kind of..." he frowned as he imagined what must be going through the other man's mind, "...payment.  I need the information. That's all. This is how I buy it."

"Of course, John. Of course."

They exchanged a long, uneasy glance before John turned away again to head toward the bath.

"Whatever you need to tell yourself, my dear."

John stopped. 

His hands clenched into fists, then released, then clenched again.

Slowly, dangerously, he turned around.

"What?" he asked, his voice tight but controlled.

"Oh, darling. Every whore has an excuse. It's never about sex or greed, is it?  Just paying for med school, sir. Just trying to get back on my feet, sir. Trying to get--"

The rest of the sentence was cut off by an incredibly swift and powerful fist.

The tall man found himself on the floor, looking up into eyes full of barely-contained homicidal fury.

John's voice was strong and deliberate.

"First, a rich wanker like you... well, you've never known what it's like to be in need, have you?"

All the other man could do was stare, open-mouthed.

John took him by his collar and shook him much too violently.

"HAVE YOU?" he shouted.

"N- no..." came the whimpered answer.

"So you can keep your fucking gob shut about what other people decide to do. Understand?"

"Yes."

"Second, you have NO idea what I would do... what I have done and will do... to clear his name. If what I needed was buried in your heart, I would reach inside your chest with my bare hands, tear your heart out, and rip it to shreds looking for what I wanted. And I'd do it while you watched. Is that also understood?"

This time his only answer was a nod.

"I want you to remember this the next time you pay for someone's body and then think about showing disrespect. Because I have my own contacts, now. My own network."

John leaned down, putting their faces very close.

"And know this. If I can get to Moriarty's men, I can certainly get to a spineless, arrogant git like you. I can also promise that you will not see it coming. Got that?"

Another weak nod.

"Good." John released his grip and stood up. "Thanks for the information earlier. If you think of anything else I should know, feel free to call me. We can do this again. With or without the punching."

He took a terrycloth robe from the end of the bed.

"I'm going to have a shower. But you just... feel free to stay on the floor as long as you like, all right?"

John smirked, went into the bathroom, and shut the door behind him.

He let out a ragged breath.

_Endurance._

Yeah. He did have that. 

In fact, he managed to wait until he was standing under the spray of the shower before he allowed himself to cry.

  


  


  



	5. Training

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock wonders if his refusal to accept training from Victor was truly the wisest choice. He decides it is time to reconsider.

Sherlock hesitated outside the door to Victor’s private rooms. Was this really necessary? Would it be taken as a sign of weakness?

Would Victor decide to end their arrangement before Sherlock had all of the information he needed?

He took a deep breath.

_No. He won’t reject me. Not if I’m honest.  Not if I tell him everything that happened.  Not if I show him my vulnerability._

_Victor could never resist the opportunity to rescue me. Even when I left him._

He rapped his knuckles lightly against the door, and he spoke in a low, clear voice. “Victor?”

Seventeen distinct scenarios ran through Sherlock’s mind during the few seconds before the door opened and Victor appeared, joy and concern obvious in his blue-green eyes.  “Sherlock. What is it?” Victor quickly scanned him up and down, checking for injuries. As he did, something dark passed over his face. “Did someone injure you? Are you all right?”

Sherlock felt his own throat tighten. _Still protective. Still solicitous. After everything I’ve…_

“No, I’m… I’m fine. May I speak to you?”

“Of course. Of course. Come in.” A strong, soft hand slid underneath Sherlock’s arm and found his waist, guiding him into the rooms. “I’ll pour you a drink. Your usual?”

“Please.”

Without making a conscious effort, Sherlock analysed his surroundings and his friend. _Jacket missing. Sleeves rolled up, but waistcoat still buttoned, evidence of recent eyestrain, hair very slightly mussed from fingers running through it at the temples. Not another’s fingers, though. Victor’s own. Less than five hours of sleep in the last twenty-four._

_Going over accounts._

_Décor of the room and quality of the food and drink on offer indicate no predictable dip in revenues, so an unexpected expense._

_Shoulders taut, fingers of right hand twitching intermittently, approximately one and a half pounds lighter than three days ago._

_Emotional strain. An emergency, but not his own. Something out of his control. One of the boys._

Victor handed Sherlock the single-malt scotch and settled down next to him on the deep-burgundy leather sofa.

“Thank you.” Sherlock took a careful sip and let the liquid warm him from his throat to his chest. “Will Antonio be leaving tomorrow or sometime during the weekend? How long do the doctors believe his mother has left?”

Victor shook his head, and looked down, and smiled in spite of himself. “Still as observant as ever, my friend. Yes, I’m hoping to get the lad back to Bari sometime tomorrow night. The doctors believe it’s a matter of weeks at most, now.” It was Victor’s turn to have a drink – a larger sip than usual – “I’d hoped he could leave sooner, but there were issues of, well, documentation to handle. The Italian government is not so inefficient or lax as we might hope. Still. A few sound investments with key officials can do wonders in such cases.” 

“Always.”

“God, I sound like your brother, now. On a much, much smaller scale, of course.”

The hint of a smile appeared on Sherlock’s lips. “Everything is on a smaller scale when compared to Mycroft.”

Victor laughed, a sweet, genuine laugh, one not meant for a man in such a profession, really, and he clapped his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. Friendly, not too intimate, not threatening.

“I had an incident with my client early this afternoon, Victor. It was my fault entirely, and I…” He swallowed, fighting the urge to close himself off, hold back. “I need your help. I don’t want it to happen again, and I hoped you could teach me how to avoid it.”

Victor set down his drink and focused his attention entirely on Sherlock. “Anything I can do, certainly. Are you able to tell me what happened?”

After a deep breath, Sherlock related the details of the afternoon’s encounter. The client had been a shortish man, late forties but in top physical condition. Former military, but not the unwavering martinet sort. He’d been quite relaxed and even kind. He’d seemed to want Sherlock – ‘Seamus’ – to enjoy the time as well.

For some reason Sherlock had felt the need to show off his observational skills, and his client had responded with honest admiration.

Admiration, beaming from steel-blue eyes. Eyes that looked up at him with kindness, even wonder.

Sherlock hadn’t thought before he’d taken the older man’s face in his hands and kissed him passionately.  And later, in bed, when he’d found himself on the verge of a second genuine climax, he’d whispered a name… the wrong name.

“I called him John.”

All Victor did was nod. His eyes remained open and caring, fixed on Sherlock.

“Was your client in any way upset by this?”

“No. No, he was quite understanding. He said he considered it a compliment.” Sherlock huffed out a humourless laugh. “I think he must better at this fakery than I am.”

“And yet, he had no reason to lie to you, Sherlock. He was, after all, the paying customer. He might just as easily requested a credit to his account. He must have admired you quite a bit.”

Sherlock looked away and took another sip.

“You’ve never had such strong feelings before, have you? This John is the first?”

“You know who was my first, Victor. I believe you were present at the time.”

“And you know exactly what I mean by the first, Sherlock. Now. Look at me for a moment.”

Sherlock blinked back the tears threatening to form at the corners of his eyes. He met Victor’s again.

Slowly, Victor’s hand moved to Sherlock’s neck. And then Victor’s lips moved to brush against Sherlock’s cheeks.

“I want you to keep your eyes open, Sherlock. Observe as much as you can.”

“What should I – “

Soft, strong lips captured Sherlock’s, pulling at them, teasing them open, gently yet hungrily.

Victor’s right hand slid up to stroke the now-ginger curls at the base of Sherlock’s neck, while his other one grasped Sherlock’s wrist. 

“Keep your fingers on my pulse point. Don’t move them.” Victor positioned Sherlock’s hand accordingly, then he moved his own hand to Sherlock’s waist.

Sherlock could feel the elevated, erratic pulse just under Victor’s jawline. He looked at Victor’s closed eyes, read what seemed to be an expression of playful desire on Victor’s face.

_They don’t match. He feels much more than his face shows._

_Just as I do – as I did – with John._

_Only I never… I could never allow myself to…_

Victor’s kisses were deeper now, but still playful, not the passionate, possessive ones he remembered from their days together at university.

The hand at Sherlock’s waist pulled him closer, then slipped down to caress his hip, his upper thigh, his groin.

Sherlock’s body began to respond, the same way it had almost a decade ago.

The soft lips moved now, down to Sherlock’s throat.  Teasing kisses, with swirls of tongue and just bare hints of teeth.  Nothing that would leave a mark.

In their other life so long ago, Victor had left dozens of bruises on Sherlock’s neck each time. Victor had wanted so much to protect and possess and mark Sherlock as his own.  Even when Sherlock was scheduled to return home for a visit or a holiday, Victor had not been able to resist marking that lovely pale neck.

And hadn’t  Mycroft loved commenting on the evidence (It was no coincidence that Sherlock fell into the habit of turning up his collar and wearing a scarf about that time).

“Seamus…,” Victor breathed against Sherlock’s throat. “Seamus, you are so lovely…”

_Lovely_

The word Victor had always used when they were –

“Stop. Victor, stop, please. Why are you doing this?”

Victor pulled away, moved his hands back to Sherlock’s shoulder and knee, and looked at Sherlock.

This time, his eyes, his whole countenance in fact, showed the intense longing, the pain he felt.

“I’m trying to show you that it can be done. You can say the words and perform the actions, and still find a way to distance yourself even from the strongest desires. No matter how passionate. No matter how desperate.”

Sherlock swallowed hard. “How do I?”

“By doing one of the most painful things you will ever do.  By admitting it to yourself, Sherlock, and allowing yourself to feel the loss.  As I did when I lost you.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Pati79 for continued ideas and inspiration for the Sherlock and Victor side of this work. :D


	6. Soft Landing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's client is in a similar profession, and her information is the most startling he's gotten yet. In fact, it could changed everything in John's world.

“ _Adelante_.”

John put a hand on the edge of the slightly-open door and pushed it aside. The hotel room was absolutely beautiful. Even more posh than he’d expected, and from what he’d heard, this woman had the kind of connections that would make Mycroft sit up and take notice.

Maybe even skip dessert.

“Oh, John, how lovely! You brought flowers. Is this a special gesture for me, or is it your usual practice?” The petite, busty brunette flashed a wicked grin at John.

John smiled in return. “No. No, I don’t usually bring flowers… but seeing as you are a woman,” his eyes flitted down to her cleavage, her waist, and back up to her cleavage again, “a very beautiful woman, in fact, it seemed appropriate.”

The woman closed her dark eyes and inhaled the scent of the flowers he handed her. “Mmmm. Very nice, thank you.” She turned to set them aside, but looked back over her shoulder at him. “And it does seem much less conspicuous to arrive bearing a gift – as though this were a simple romantic encounter. Though I’m sure you weren’t thinking along those lines at all, were you, darling?”

John pinched his lower lip for a moment and then laughed. “I should have expected you to work that out. Considering who you… I mean what you…” He cut off the end of his sentence with an awkward cough.

“Considering who I am and what I do. Or did you mean it the other way ‘round?”

“Well, I’m hardly one to judge that, am I?” This time, his smile could not hide the obvious pain behind his eyes.

Her hands reached out and held either side of his face. “We do what we must, for our own reasons. You should never feel shame for that.  I admire you. In fact, if you don’t want this, then tell me. I’ll give you the information I have, and then I’ll let you go on your way.”

John raised one eyebrow.

“Believe me,” She continued, dropping her hands to his shoulders, “I don’t want to miss the… opportunity…, but I’m willing to respect your wishes, John, one searcher to another. If you’d rather not do anyth—“

Before she could finish, John’s mouth captured hers as he kissed her hungrily.  He heard the sound of his own voice moaning, and he struggled to believe that he could sound so… desperate. So…feral.

One of his hands buried itself in her dark hair, and he placed the other on the small of her back, pressing her body tightly to his as he moved against her.

His mouth moved to her neck, her collarbones, the swell of her breasts just above the neckline of her dress “I want this…” he murmured into her skin between kisses and barely-gentle bites, “I want you… Now…”

He did want it, especially because he knew it was not required or forced for once. Especially because this was a woman, soft, small, fiery but yielding. This was the kind of woman he’d wanted most in the days before one man turned everything on its head. Made everything wrong.  And right. And then made everything disappear.

He bent down, pulled her silk blouse aside and kissed her ribcage, then her navel. Here, now. John was alive again for a moment. He was John Watson again, not the sidekick, not the mourner, not the bitter and wronged soldier. He was simply John Watson, a man.

The woman let out a cry of surprise and pleasure as John pushed up her skirt and bit gently at the soft skin exposed at the top of her thigh-high stocking. Quickly, he soothed the bite with his tongue, and pushed against her hips until she was sitting on the edge of the plush, oversized bed.

God, she smelled good, and she tasted even better. Every sound she made filled him, affirmed him, made him remember what it was like to be in control… of himself, of his life, of his urges, of his body.

He brought her to the brink, then over, then back again before they finally undressed and made good use of the rest of the bed. He loved that she had dropped the professionalism and allowed herself simply to respond and enjoy. Simply enjoying another person’s warmth and desire and flesh and excitement, not worrying about an interruption or about ruining a friendship – he had missed this so damned much.

And her mouth on him – God, yes!  It shut out everything else and let him dissolve into pleasure, finally.

For the first time in years, he slept in another person’s arms.  Perhaps it wasn’t the person he longed for, but it would do. It would do very nicely for the next few hours.

***

Some time past midnight, they were both awake, talking. Because each knew why the other was there, the talk turned quickly from trivial matters to information.

“I met another man looking for associates of your Mr. Moriarty.  Very striking. Hard to forget, which is a liability in this profession. I don’t think he cared, though. I think his goal was more important than money or justice or even his own life.  They’re frightening, the ones like that.”

“Where did you meet?” John pushed a stray tendril of hair off of her cheek.

“He was posing as a priest at a Catholic school in Buenos Aires.  I was posing as a teacher.”

John huffed out a small laugh.

“Oh, you don’t see me as the teacher sort?  Not an exciting enough profession?”

“That’s not why I laughed.  I’ve been with teachers. The boring act is usually just that, an act.” He moved his head down and nipped lightly at her shoulder. “It’s often a cover for wildness. Depravity. I’ve rarely been disappointed.”

“John, you’re very good at this. Flattery after the act. That’s professionalism, dear.”

For a moment, John felt a pang in his heart. _This isn’t my profession. This is necessity_. “It’s not flattery. I’m not… I’m not working at the moment.  Though I’d still like to hear more about your priest, if you feel like talking.”

She continued her story about the tall, handsome English priest who taught Advanced Linguistics in the classroom down the hall from hers. Half the school had fallen in love with him in the first week, and only the Roman Collar had kept the more daring advances at bay.  It had taken her no more than two days to guess what he was doing.

“He was frequenting the same restaurants and parks I did, at nearly the same times. One of my informants almost called off a meeting because a priest was nearby.”

John smiled inwardly at that. Spying, killing, selling people, selling oneself, all well and good as long as Father doesn’t find out, right?

“Did you confront him?”

“Oh, yes. He’d seen me for who I am, too.  So we, well, negotiated an information exchange in his classroom, three times a week, often right on his desk. I can’t tell you how my English improved thanks to his talent for linguistics.” She winked and smiled slyly at John. He smiled back, impressed.

“What information were you two exchanging, then?”

“Information about an assassin named Moran. Not a name many will say out loud, but one that nearly every person knows.  He was a last resort for even the most powerful crime bosses. They say he could make people and their families, their whole lives, cease to exist in under 24 hours.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“He was gone for a while, I think he was here in England when Moriarty died.  When Moran came back, I heard he was even more of a lunatic. He was less cautious. Less neat in his killing. Less careful with his network of associates. My dear priest friend had gotten several good leads already, and I provided the final ones.  Two days after our last…session… Moran and the good Father were out of the country. Out of South America altogether, I hear.  My sources tell me that Moran came back to Europe, France, I think, and his network has thinned out to nearly nothing.”

“Why? Has he cut them loose?”

“We don’t know. All we know is that they’ve been dying. Slowly, one by one. Different methods. What I find interesting is that there is no sign of the killer. Not a singl link to follow, and believe me, Moran as well as my people have been looking.”

“You say the priest left. Could he have been killed, by any chance?”

At this she smiled broadly, as if lost in a particularly beautiful memory.

“No, he is alive. I’m sure of it. He sent me a few texts asking for more information. And one just to thank me. He said he owes me dinner.”

Something caught in John’s throat.

“Could you tell me anything more about this priest? What he looked like? His colouring?”

“Tall, as I said. Very pale. Well, even more pale than a typical Englishman. Sensuous mouth. Deep, beautiful voice.”

At this point, John could feel himself shaking. He willed the hope away. _No. Don’t do this to yourself. Don’t hope again. He’s gone. You’re not looking for him; you’re fighting for his memory. His reputation. That’s all there is of him_.

Still, he had to ask the last question. “What colour were his eyes?”

She paused. “I… I can hardly describe them. Not blue, not silver, not green, but… all of that together. Unearthly.  His eyes were the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen.”

John let out an involuntary sob.

“What’s wrong? John? Tell me. What’s happening?”  She put her arms around him, but it didn’t do anything to stop John’s shaking.

“I’m sorry.  Sorry, I…”  John got up and began to dress as quickly as he could. “I have to go.  Please don’t think that I only… I mean… Just, I have to go. I have to go now.”

He sprinted for the door, but stopped, then rushed back to the bed and placed a hurried kiss on her forehead.

“Thank you,” he whispered, and he ran into the corridor, heading for the nearest stairwell.


	7. Flashback - Undercover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Approximately eight months prior to the events of Chapter 6, in a Catholic school in Buenos Aires, two people see through each other's disguises.

_“You’re not a priest.”_

“And you’re not a schoolteacher.”

_“Oh, that’s where you’re wrong, Father. I am a fully qualified teacher. It was my first job, actually.”_

“Not your real job, now, though.”

_“No. And you? What is your real job? You are not here, I think, to save souls”_

“I’m here to save lives. One life in particular. And, no, it isn’t mine.”

_“What are you hoping to save that life from? The devil?”_

“The devil’s right-hand man. You are looking for him, too, I believe.”

_“Mmm. It sounds as though I need to come to you for confession, Father.”_

“I highly recommend it,  _Profesora_. Good for the soul. Perhaps you should get on your knees?”

_“Oh, I’d quite like that. After you, though, Father. I’ve heard so much about your skill at linguistics. I simply must find out if all the praise is merited.”_

“Oh, if anything, it is understated. Shall we agree to a barter system for this information we seek, then?”

_“It would be my pleasure.”_

“Indeed,  _Profesora_ , it will b _e.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the lovely Pati79 on Tumblr


	8. Calling Card

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is closer than ever to his goal, but will he still be too late to save John?

It was under the door, just one corner sticking out, just a beige spot no bigger than the end of John’s fingernail.  
  
And it hadn’t been there yesterday when he walked past.  
  
Because he still couldn’t go back to the flat. Not just yet. He could only get as far as the doorstep.  
  
Maybe after another month?  
  
Maybe never.  
  
He crouched down and tried to get hold of the little scrap of card, easing it, tugging it, careful not to rip whatever it was.  
  
Foolish. He had the key. He could simply open the door and pick it up. But he wouldn’t do that. He couldn’t put the key in that lock again. Not yet.  
  
When he did work it loose, he saw the front had a minimalist logo of crossed rifle silhouettes underneath the bold initials SM.  
  
He turned it over and read the message on the back. It was written in a tight, controlled hand.  
  
“I will give you what mine never gave me. Permission to join him. Think of yours one last time. Then turn and look up at the rooftop. You know how to look up at a rooftop, don’t you, Johnny?”  
  
John felt his blood turn to ice.  
  
He squared his shoulders, placed the card neatly in the shirt pocket just over his heart, and turned to look up at the building across the street.  
  
He could barely make out the head and shoulders of a man who was pointing what must be a high-powered rifle down at John’s head. Or heart.  
  
John rather hoped it would be the heart.  
  
He closed his eyes and gave a curt, military nod.  
  
And he even felt relieved as he managed, one last time, to breathe out the name “Sherlock.”  
  
....  
  
"John!" Sherlock cried out as he awoke, trembling, in Victor's bed.  
  
This scenario, or some version of it, had been his recurring nightmare more and more often in the past months. Moran was still alive (not anywhere near England, Sherlock was reasonably sure), and that meant John was still in danger.  
  
Sherlock could find all the missing pieces and still be too late.  
  
Victor laid a soothing hand over Sherlock's heart. "He's still safe, Sherlock. He's fine," Victor reassured him. "Mycroft will be watching out for him, too."  
  
Sherlock wiped the back of his hand over his own damp forehead. "Mycroft isn't infallible, Victor."  
  
"No. No, I suppose not. But he's the closest thing to it you'll find this side of the Vatican."  
  
Sherlock let out a huff.  
  
"You're right to be afraid, Sherlock. I don't blame you. This is a dangerous .... mission you've taken upon yourself.  And I imagine you've never dealt with anything this close to your heart before."

There was no bitterness in Victor’s voice, Sherlock noted. How could a man be this good? And how had Sherlock, broken Sherlock, a heartless freak to most, managed to find two men who were so good, so pure in their own ways, and somehow both devoted to a man who caused each of them immeasurable pain?

He covered Victor’s hand with his own, but he did not speak.

For several minutes, both men rested that way, unmoving, silent.

“Victor, did you ever love anyone… after?”

Victor cleared his throat. “Not to the same degree, no. I’ve .... well, I have been in love since then. We’re still friends, in fact. But there was never…. never anything quite the same for me. Not after.”

“Is that why you decided to sell companionship like this? The act, without the emotion? Real emotion, I should say. Though your young men are very fine performers. In both senses.”

A faint laugh escaped Victor’s lips. “Well, I choose only the best, as you’re aware.” He shifted up onto one elbow and looked into Sherlock’s eyes. “You know, I never really considered my business in light of what happened with us. I suppose there is something to your theory. Companionship, comfort, excitement, but no promise of a future. Just a beautiful spectacle enacted again and again. Hmmm. Perhaps I should put that in the brochures?”

Sherlock grinned, and Victor responded with his familiar broad, open-mouthed, toothy smile.

“You might want a name for your establishment, as well. Trevor Consulting hardly suits it.”

“Yes, well, that is the point, isn’t it?” Victor moved a stray curl from Sherlock’s forehead. “What would you choose, then? In your professional opinion?”

“Ostentatiously Rich Gentlemen’s Affection Source Management.”

“A bit technical, isn’t it, Sherlock?”

“Use the acronym.”

Victor’s mouth silently formed the letters O, R, G, A… and then he fell back against the pillow, shaking with boisterous laughter.

On the nightstand nearby, Sherlock’s mobile phone rang softly.

Only one number ever called, and as it was not quite daybreak, it must be something important.

Victor bit his lip and kept silent as Sherlock answered.

“What’s happened?" Sherlock barked. "Is John safe?”

Sherlock sat up, pulling the covers up with him. “Are they sure it’s John? How many of them?.... Damn you, Mycroft, it matters to ME. HOW MANY MEN?”

Sherlock took the phone away from his ear and drew back as if to throw it against the wall.  After a deep breath, he spoke into it again, calmly but tersely. “Three days. If I haven’t contacted you in three days, take him into protective custody. Please. He won’t be there long. I have almost all I need.”  Sherlock let out a long, measured breath. “Yes. Thank you.”

He clicked off the phone and dropped it onto the bed.

Victor reached out and laid a hand on Sherlock’s arm. “Is John going to be all right?”

Sherlock ran his hands through his ginger-dyed curls

“I need to think.” He got up and hurriedly put on the clothes he’d discarded on the settee near the foot of the bed.

“You know I’m willing to help in any way, Sherlock. Please don’t hesitate to ask me. For anything.”

Sherlock was nearly through the doorway into the next room when he stopped, steadied himself with one hand on the door frame, and turned back to face his friend.

“I want to say… I want you to know, Victor, that I… appreciate what you’ve done to help.  Everything you’ve done… All of it, in fact. And I….,  I….”

“I understand, Sherlock. Now go. Think of what you must do. I’ll be here.”

Sherlock clamped his mouth shut and nodded before turning and leaving the bedroom.

As he slipped into his shoes, he heard the distant clink of crystal on glass.

 Victor was pouring himself a strong drink.

\----

 


	9. Game Change

 

 

 

> _“Could you tell me anything more about this priest? What he looked like? His colouring?”_
> 
> _“Tall, as I said. Very pale. Well, even more pale than a typical Englishman. Sensuous mouth. Deep, beautiful voice.”_
> 
> _At this point, John could feel himself shaking. He willed the hope away.  Still, he had to ask the last question. “What colour were his eyes?”_
> 
> _She paused. “I… I can hardly describe them. Not blue, not silver, not green, but… all of that together. Unearthly.  His eyes were the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen.”_

_***_

For the first time in months, John picked up his phone and started to key in a number he’d sworn he would never use again.

Not unless he had absolutely no other way.

Could he speak to the man he blamed almost as much as he blamed Moriarty?  Almost as much as he blamed Sherlock for choosing suicide?

Before John reached the last digit, he hit the button to cancel.

_No. There’s still one lead._

Not until that last hope was gone would he allow himself to waste another breath on Mycroft Holmes.

John’s last ‘client’ had mentioned France, and that information matched what a previous encounter had given him.  He searched through the small file box in his bedsit and pulled out another business card.

It was beige, with a logo of crossed rifle silhouettes underneath the bold initials SM.  On the back was a note, written in a loose scrawl.   

_Auvergne. Puy-de-Dome._

Below that was a local London mobile number of man who could get John across the Channel, into the mountainous Auvergne area, and maybe even close Colonel Sebastian Moran himself.  That was the last link of Moriarty’s chain.  John had been waiting, hoping to confirm the information with at least one more source, hoping to plan a more sophisticated attack.

_No time, now.  If Sherlock’s alive…._

John entered the number on the card and waited for the other line to pick up.

“Yes?”

“John Watson. Listen, the ...transportation we discussed. How soon could we meet?”

The voice on the other end hesitated, and John heard the sound of papers rustling.

“Do you remember the meeting location from before?”

“Yes.”

“Two blocks down from there. Empty estate agent’s office. The door will be unlocked. Be there at 10pm.”

“Agreed.”

John clicked the end button, and he took a deep breath.

_If Sherlock’s alive,_

_If Sherlock’s alive,_

The same three words had bombarded John’s mind for the past twenty hours.  He couldn’t even bring himself to imagine the end of that sentence.

 

***

 

At a quarter past ten that night, John was waiting in a darkened, empty office that had once belonged to someone with the last name Malcolm, according to the sign on the door.

_New Message -- Stay in the back office. Keep the door closed, lights off. Will knock five times._

John had to wonder, sometimes, if these clients of his really got off on the sex or on the idea of playing spies.

Well, he had a tight black tee on under his hunting jacket, and he held the Browning L9A1 at his side.

He was ready for either option.

John heard the front door open, and he could make out soft, measured footsteps. Definitely more than one set of them.

A lamp switched on in the corridor and sent a sliver of light underneath the door.

John squared his shoulders and squinted, ready for the door to swing open.

Five  knocks. Then a pause.

The door opened quickly, and as John’s eyes tried to adjust to the light, he could see three shadowed figures enter the room. Two were men roughly his height.  The third, farthest away, was much taller. He held a thick cane or walking stick that was tapered at the bottom and had a familiar, curved handle.

_John Watson, you fucking idiot. You should have seen this coming._

It wasn’t a cane at all.

It was a god-damned umbrella.

“Good evening, John,” Mycroft said warmly.

John let his shoulders slump down in defeat. One of the other men drew close and put a hand on John’s arm.

“I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I must ask you hand your firearm to Mr. Garcia. For safety reasons.”

John let out a short, humourless laugh.

“Still sorry, are you?”

After looking once, longingly, at the door, John closed his eyes and held out his gun. It was a gesture of defeat, resignation.

And the highly-trained Mr. Garcia was just able to brush his fingers against the barrel before John lunged sideways, wrenched Garcia’s arm up and back, and pushed the muzzle of the gun into the man’s temple.

Garcia’s partner took a step in their direction.

“Don’t….” John warned him.

Mycroft lifted one hand, and the partner stood down.

“John,” Mycroft began calmly, “You know you are in an untenable position. You’re also experiencing heightened emotions…”

“What the hell would you know about emotions?” John nearly growled.

“Let him go, John.”

“And if I don’t?” 

Mycroft looked down at the floor for a moment, and then he raised his eyes to meet John’s. “There are seven of my… associates just outside this room.  Twenty more are stationed at various points surrounding the building.  Mr. Garcia and his partner Mr. Preston are the only two who are not armed. That was as a courtesy to you.”

John’s breath was coming faster, but he drew his mouth into a stern line as he readjusted his stance and increased the pressure of his hold on Garcia.

“The other courtesy to you,” Mycroft continued, “was that I chose to meet you here in person. And if you like, you may send these men outside and speak to me here, just the two of us, until you are satisfied that I have your best interests at heart.”

At the mention of the word heart, John felt the muscles in his throat start to constrict.

He swallowed, hard, before speaking in a low, strained voice.

“Is Sherl-,” he caught his breath, cleared his throat, and began again. “Is Sherlock alive?”

Mycroft kept his voice and his gaze steady. “Yes, John. He is.”

John felt something break deep inside his chest. Burning tears filled his eyes and threatened to spill over as the whole room became a dim, watery blur.

He dropped his arms to his sides and let Garcia quickly and efficiently strip him of his weapon.

“He is alive for the moment, at least.” Mycroft added.

“What?” John did his best to wipe his eyes with the back of his hand and focus again. “Where the hell is he? I need to see him.  Now!”

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible, John.”

_Fuck. Why the hell did I let them take the gun?_

Immediately, he rushed at Mycroft, grabbed him by the lapels of his finely-tailored jacket, and pushed him against the wall.

“You take me to him, Mycroft. You take me to him right now, d’you understand me?”

Two men were already pulling John away. Others came running through the open door. He could see handguns drawn and ready, and he hear the rattle of handcuffs somewhere behind him.

“I really am very sorry, John, but we are taking you into protective custody for the time being.”

John felt the cool metal of a handcuff slip around his right wrist.

The sensation, the memory of that sensation, was too much. He turned and lashed out wildly, shouting in anger and pain.

He landed a vicious blow across the jaw of an armed man just to his right, and he heard the crack of ribs as his elbow connected with another of Mycroft's men. Then a strong, thick arm was around his throat, constricting his windpipe more and more as John continued to struggle. 

Soon, John was face-down on the floor, arms pinned behind him, someone’s knee on the small of his back, and another man’s knee on his neck.

“Please try to calm down as much as you can. This is for your protection. Please trust me, John.”

John felt a pair of hands pushing up the left cuff of his jeans. More hands held both of his feet perfectly still. There was the momentary sting of a needle near his ankle, and then a wave of heaviness began to spread through his body.

“Let me… Please let me see him,” he said, already slurring his speech. “Please, I need to see him…”

And then there was only darkness.

And silence.


	10. Ghosts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every war has casualties. John Watson's war is no different.

John was walking down the dimly-lit corridor of what had once been a posh hotel

_I will find him. One last search. One last lead._

For some reason, he couldn’t remember which room number he’d been given.  But he knew it was close.

_Why can’t I remember?_

_How did I even get here?_

He patted his jacket pockets, felt for his wallet, his keys, his phone, his gun. None of it.

_Was I mugged?_

He could feel soreness in his limbs and shoulders, his back and neck. There wasn’t a mirror nearby to check for bruises, though.  He kept walking.  And then he saw it: the door he needed to open.

“Hello?” Is anyone in there?

“Come in, John.”

The voice made a pang shoot through John’s heart, but he couldn’t say why. He couldn’t say why his knees felt weak. He couldn’t understand.

Inside the darkened room, a slim man stood, his face in shadows.

“I’m…sorry. I’ve forgotten your name.” John looked back over his shoulder to see if anyone was following. “And think I might have been mugged on the way here.”

"Need to cancel the fun, then?  Not up for it anymore? If you’ll forgive the pun.” The soft, Irish voice actually giggled. “I was hoping you’d choose to stay here and play. You're a professional, now. And the pros play hurt, don’t they?"

John felt queasy. He still couldn't make out the other man's features. He only saw a slim frame clad in an expensive suit.

"Sorry, I'm not sure I understand what you mean by-"

"DON'T THEY!?!" the voice shouted back unexpectedly.

John fought the urge to take a step backward. The voice terrified him, and he wanted to run away, anywhere, NOW.

But he couldn't run. He had to do this. He had to do this for Sherlock.

For Sherlock's memory.

_No. Not memory. That's not... He's not..._

"Sherlock's not dead," John whispered, barely able to form the words.

"Surprise, Johnny! God, you're slow. I mean," the  voice huffed with laughter, "anyone would expect Sherlock's pet to be a bit smarter than most, but not you, Johnny Boy. No, you're just sooo STUPID!"

_This bastard, this monster knows that Sherlock is alive. Is he looking for him, too? Has he found him? Has he hurt him?_

John reached out to grab the other man’s throat, to shake him, choke the information out of him, force him to take them to wherever Sherlock was.

But before John could do any of that, he felt the cold metal of a gun pressing into the back of his neck.

“You know,” the other man continued, "the funny thing about playing dead is it gives you a whole new game board. New rules, new pieces, new moves."

John jutted his chin out slightly. His stomach turned over at the memory of an explosive-rigged vest, laser sights covering his heart. "This is a new move? Feels just like the other one." John could tell that his defiant act didn’t work. He could feel himself trembling, for God's sake. But it wasn't that he feared to die; he feared he would die before he saw Sherlock alive again.

The slim man stepped closer, and now John could clearly see Moriarty's features. This time, though, the face was much, much paler than before. The lips were nearly blue. And there was dark, red blood dripping from the corner of Moriarty's mouth, as well as from behind his ear.

Moriarty smiled, and he looked even more ghoulish.

"Oh, I wasn't talking about me playing dead. No. Because, as you can see, I'm not PLAYING."

John's mouth dropped open.

" _You're_ playing, though, aren't you, Johnny? Hmmm? Playing spies, playing the martyr, playing the big, tough soldier. Playing the gigolo. Do you really believe yourself when you say it's all for him? Are you that easily fooled?"

Moriarty's cold hand cupped the side of John's face. He trailed his thumb distractedly across John's lower lip.

John couldn’t stop the shudder of revulsion and fear that ran through his body.

“No, I think you know the truth. Couldn’t just mourn him. Nah. That wasn’t nearly as exciting as all this. All this wonderful danger. It’s what you love, isn’t it? Almost as much as you love him.” Moriarty nodded at the man holding a gun to John’s neck.

John felt a large powerful hand pushing down on his shoulder. Pushing him down… onto his knees.

_Oh, fuck._

Once John was kneeling, the hand on his shoulder moved and grasped John’s short, sandy hair, pulling John’s head up and back.

Moriarty leaned down and looked into John’s eyes. John flinched as a few drops of Moriarty’s blood fell down and landed on his cheek.

This time, the soft voice was more like a lilting whisper. “He knows about it, John. What you’ve been doing with all those men, with the women, too.  Do you think he’ll want you back now you’re all…” Moriarty made a disgusted grimace, “..used up?”

“This isn’t about wanting me back. It’s about proving them wrong. Showing the truth. He wasn’t a fake. You must have done something to him…forced him to lie.”

Now the fingers pulled tighter in John’s hair, and the gun pressed harder against his neck.

“I think I should get Seb here to take photos of you sucking me off, Johnny. What do you say? We can send them right to Sherlock’s phone!  But I’ll make sure to keep the gun out of the shot. We don’t want to spoil the mood. Sherlock deserves to see how much you love it. How much you want it. How greedy you are for it.”

John clenched his teeth.

“Hmm. But Seb, he’s no good with the artsy stuff. Oh! I should film you two! Nice treat for Sebastian. And he’s about the right height. You could close your eyes and pretend it’s Sherlock.” Moriarty slapped John’s cheeks playfully and then looked up and winked at the man holding the gun.

John took a shallow, shuddering breath, then  he spoke as calmly as he could. “What do I have to do for you to let me see him? Or even just speak to him? You won’t need the gun; I’ll do it, anything.  Hell, I’ll make _you_ believe I love it. Just… let me speak to him. Just one more time.”

Moriarty stood back up and placed a hand over his own heart, clenching it as if in pain. “Why, Johnny! That is so touching!  I think I’m going to weep!  Stop that; you’re going to make Seb cry like a baby, and I’m the only one allowed to dothat.”

John felt something warm and wet begin to pool around his knees. He started to look down, but his head was held firmly back.

“You’ve already done quite enough, you know. How many people did you kill for him, even before you thought he was dead? How many have you beaten and broken since then? What kind of a monster did you let yourself become because of one psychotic, selfish man?”

The warm liquid was rising higher, up to John’s thighs.

“What’s happening?” John asked.

“Go ahead. Look.”

The grip on his hair let go, and John looked down at his legs. The floor was covered with dark red blood.

He jumped to his feet in horror, forgetting the armed man behind him.

“Jesus! What the hell?!”

“You’re knee-deep in blood, John Watson. And for what? For a man who lied to you, who left you behind, BROKE you again, and even let you whore yourself while you tried to clear his name. He could have found a way to let you know he was alive, John. But he didn’t. He didn’t want you with him. He didn’t WANT you at all.”

Blood began dripping from the walls. It pooled up from the centre of the bed and spilled over the sides of the mattress.

The strong hands grabbed John’s shoulders and spun him back to face Moriarty.

Moriarty reached out and straightened the collar of John's shirt. “Well, that’s me done, then.  Time to be off.” He snapped his fingers, and the hands released John.

Already the room was getting dimmer.

“Give my love to Sherlock Holmes.  Oh, and tell him we’ve got his room all ready for him down here.”

John could barely see anything, now.  Just hazy, dark shapes.

“It’s right next to yours, John.”

The blood rose up and lapped against John’s fingertips.

He could feel himself falling backward.

Then everything was gone.

 


	11. Broken Promise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock hopes to get to John and explain everything. Anything. However, plans and messages are intercepted by someone very, very dangerous.

**Message:**  We received news of Moran’s whereabouts. He’s no longer in France. Intelligence indicates he may have crossed our borders as late as yesterday.  –M

 

 **_Reply:_ ** _Then you must protect John. Take him into custody today. Will you do that, Mycroft? –S_

 

 **Message:** Already done, five hours ago.  He was not pleased. –M

 

 **_Reply:_ ** _Does he know? How much?_

 

 **Message:** Only that you are alive. He asked to see you. I refused. He had to be sedated. –M

 

 **_Reply:_ ** _I’ll come to you. Send a car to Victor’s. –S_

 

 **Message:** Already on its way.-M

 

 **_Reply:_ ** _It just pulled up. I need to make a stop, first. Give me half an hour. Let no one speak to John before I arrive. –S_

 

 **Message:** Sherlock, the car is still five minutes away. –M

 

 **Message:** Sherlock, the driver reports you are not at Victor’s. Please advise. –M

 

 **Message:** What are you doing, Sherlock? –M

 

 **Message:** If you do not reply in the next ten minutes, I will send a search party after you. –M

 

 **Message:** Sherlock, you have two minutes. –M

 

 **_Reply:_ ** _Mr. Holmes, your brother is unable to come to the phone at the moment. If you send armed men after him, he will be dead before they break down the door. I am willing to negotiate for his life, but I will not do so with you. Once you’ve traced the location of this mobile phone, release John Watson and send him to me. You will not be offered any other terms. - S.M._

 

**********

Sherlock awoke slowly, his head throbbing, his vision hazy. Wherever he was, it was dark but for one stationary light and one small glimmer that bobbed up and down as it got closer to and then farther away from his eyes.

He was on his back with his hands cuffed behind him and his ankles bound by thick, coarse rope that scratched at the bare skin of his ankles and feet.

He could make out what must be the silhouette of a seated man above him.  One shadowy arm and shoulder moved each time the glimmer rose up, then it moved again when the glimmer got closer, causing the small light to stop abruptly for a few seconds each time.

_Not a light. A knife blade. Angled kukri knife, commonly used among military serving in the Middle and Far East._

This time it stopped mere centimetres from Sherlock’s face and hovered there.

The surroundings were coming swiftly into focus, now. 

“Ah. You’re waking up,” a calm voice said.

The knife flipped up into the air again, then was caught –again- just above Sherlock’s eyes. Much too close to them, in fact.

He tried to move his head, but a heavy boot slammed down next to his ear, pinning some of his hair underneath.

“Be still.”

The knife flipped up and down once more.

“Fair-haired, now, are you? Well, ginger. And you’ve put on some muscle, too. Huh. Guess I’m lucky Jim never saw you like this. Really would have been the end of me. He had a weakness for that type.”

The man took a long, slow drag from a cigarette. He let the smoke trail out of his nose and mouth for a few seconds before blowing it at the ceiling.

Ashes and half-lit cinders fell around Sherlock’s face. He tried not to breathe, tried not to cough.

And he tried to think of how best to deal right now with a frighteningly-calm former-Colonel Sebastian Moran.

“You and I have a problem, Mr. Holmes.  And it comes from the fact that you look surprisingly alive for a man who committed suicide in order to save his friends.  Now, this wouldn’t be a problem if your friends were dead. Either-or. That was the deal.”  More smoke trailed up, more ash drifted down, landing in Sherlock’s hair and eyelashes.  “And that deal was the last fucking promise I made to Jim Moriarty.”

The knife whooshed through the air and landed deep in the floorboard next to Sherlock’s head.

“So, Sherlock Holmes. Unless you have proof that you’ve been resurrected by God himself after three days in the tomb, we’re going to have to do something about this situation. Aren’t we?”

Sherlock opened his mouth to answer, but he hesitated a second too long.

“AREN’T WE?” Moran roared back.

“You’re correct, Colonel.  I reneged on my part of the bargain. I was never dead. But you have the power to fix that now, obviously.”

Moran bent down and retrieved his knife. “You know,” he laughed, “I,d hoped it was you, back there in Argentina. I thought for a moment I’d seen you. Then my men started disappearing. It made me wonder. But I told myself it couldn’t be. Even you couldn’t have outsmarted Jim. Not even you. But you know what? Part of me wanted it to be true. Because you were the last person to see him alive. My last link to him. And if you were still around, well, I’d have a good reason…. A real reason….to keep going. I’d have one last job to do.  I’d be able to follow his orders one last time, and KNOW it was the last time.”

“Then I imagine you are honour-bound to-“

“FUCK honour!” Moran dropped to the ground and crouched over Sherlock, holding the blade of the knife against his throat. “What the fuck would you even know about it, you soft, arrogant piece of shit?  This isn’t about honour. It’s about punishment, now. Jim gave us our orders; you disobeyed. Now you pay the price.”

Despite his best efforts to remain calm and stay perfectly still, Sherlock felt his entire body shiver.

A short, buzzing sound broke the silence. Moran reached into his own pocket and took out Sherlock’s phone. 

“Here. Read your message.” He tapped the screen, then held it in front of Sherlock’s face.

 

 **_Message:_ ** _John Watson is en route to your location. He is unarmed. I have granted him licence to accept your terms on my behalf.  We are prepared to show considerable generosity in exchange for the safe return of both men. –MH_

“Colonel, my brother is telling you the truth.  I’m sure you can imagine what he might grant you if you give him terms.”

_And it won’t matter. The entire world wouldn’t be enough.  But there has to be a way to save John. Think, damn it. Think._

 “He’ll be here soon. Get up.” Moran stood and roughly pushed his boot into Sherlock’s shoulder.

Getting up was difficult with his hands and ankles bound. He struggled to his knees and was rewarded with a brutal kick to the ribs.

“Get. The Fuck. Up!”  Another kick, this time to the stomach, knocked Sherlock backward onto the floor again.  He struggled to catch his breath and rolled over onto his side in the foetal position.

Another swift kick, this time to middle of Sherlock’s back. He actually heard the cracking of his own ribs before his mind processed the pain. He forced himself to breathe through it, to be sure his lungs were not punctured. Two deep, ragged breaths filled him with white pain, but they didn’t bring up any blood.

The fingers of Moran’s right hand wound through Sherlock’s curls and pulled him up again to a kneeling position.

He watched as Moran took SIG Sauer 250 off of the table. Soon, its muzzle was digging into Sherlock’s temple.

_I need to think. Why can’t I think?_

There were three short, loud knocks at the door.

“John..” Sherlock whispered.

“Don’t worry,” Moran said in hushed tones. “I won’t blow your brains out until after he sees you.  I won’t make him find you like that. I’m not a fucking psychopath, after all.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maybe he isn't, but I am, when it comes to ending chapters.
> 
> ;-)


	12. Final Payment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John arrives to bargain for Sherlock's life. But is there anything Moran will accept in return?

 

 

> The fingers of Moran’s right hand wound through Sherlock’s curls and pulled him up again to a kneeling position.
> 
> He watched as Moran took the SIG Sauer 250 off of the table. Soon, its muzzle was digging into Sherlock’s temple.
> 
> _I need to think. Why can’t I think?_
> 
> There were three short, loud knocks at the door.
> 
> “John..” Sherlock whispered.
> 
> “Don’t worry,” Moran said in hushed tones. “I won’t blow your brains out until after he sees you.  I won’t make him find you like that. I’m not a fucking psychopath, after all.”

 

Even though Sherlock was bound, kneeling, and held at gunpoint, his eyes darted freely and quickly around the room. He gathered as much data as possible:  --broken  skylight, disconnected radiator nearly rusted through, rickety bedstead and worn-down mattress, mildewed sheets with an embroidered hotel monogram—  He knew where they were in relation to the city centre, and he calculated where Mycroft would most likely have armed men ready and waiting outside.  
  
What mattered now was keeping John alive. Mycroft should never have sent him. John should never have agreed to come. Were they both driven mad by sentiment?   
  
If so, he understood the feeling. He understood it too well.  
  
Three more knocks came at the door, and then the handle turned slowly.   
  
"Hurry up, Watson, if you want to see him while he’s still alive," Moran called out. “And lock the door behind you.”  
  
The door pushed open, and John took a step inside. As he turned and closed the door behind him, the lock audibly clicked into place.  Sherlock held his breath.  
  
 _John._

John froze, turned, and looked at him, as though he’d heard Sherlock call his name.

_John, in this room. Here. Now._

_Thinner, worn, so much older around the eyes and mouth, so sad, so frightened. Full of confusion and pain._

_Look at him:  as if suffering could walk and breathe._

_As if anguish larger than his body were held inside, contained only by sheer force of will._

_John._

_Broken but refusing to be conquered, so much like he was when we first met._

_Agony and courage at war with each other._  
  
He saw a flash of doubt in John's eyes as they took in the ginger hair and the added bulk in Sherlock's chest and shoulders. But when John’s gaze met Sherlock's again, every shred of doubt dissolved. There was nothing left in them but recognition and bare, hard pain.  
  
Tears welled up and shone in John’s eyes. He squinted, obviously trying to focus.  
  
"Sherlock..." it was barely a whisper.  "Jesus.  It's all true?"  
  
Sherlock swallowed back the emotion threatening to overwhelm his voice. "Yes."  
  
John's mouth had fallen open, but now it clamped shut and turned down at the corners.  As he looked away, he pressed the heel of his right hand into his eyes.   
  
"John, I'd hoped to tell you myself--"  
  
"You fucking bastard," John spat out.  
  
Sherlock recoiled as if he'd been struck.   
  
Moran's gun dragged a scratch along Sherlock's temple, and Moran tightened his grip in Sherlock’s hair.

"Now you've had your moment, Watson. Time to pull yourself together.  Time to beg for his life. Tell me,  what will queen and country offer me if I send him back with his brains still inside his head?"

John kept his eyes closed. “Anything. Everything. I’ve been instructed to give you whatever you want. Whatever it takes.”

Moran laughed. “Well, that’s so easy to say.  It’s a shame Big Brother can’t give me what I want. He can’t bring Jim Moriarty back to me.  He can’t help me finish my mission.  You can, though, John.  You’re the _only_ one who can.  Will you do it?”

_No.  He’ll ask him to sacrifice himself for me.  He’ll ask him to choose._

“John, if you have the chance to leave here, take it.”

“SHUT UP!” Moran jerked Sherlock’s head back and looked into his eyes. “You keep your fucking mouth shut, or I’ll kill you _both_ right now.  You know beyond a doubt that I will.”

It was almost like staring into Moriarty’s eyes on the rooftop over a year ago.  The insanity and despair lay there just under the anger at the surface.  Sherlock’s lips tightened into a thin line.

“What’s the mission?” John asked. His voice sounded so tired. Defeated.

“My last orders from Jim Moriarty were to kill you if Sherlock didn’t kill himself.”

“What? What the hell are you talking about?” John’s expression was filled with doubt and accusation as he looked down and searched Sherlock’s eyes.  “Why?”

Moran laughed bitterly. “Fuck if I know or if I care. He gave me an order. And when I packed away my rifle, I thought I’d carried it out.  That’s all that mattered to me after I found him.  That’s all I had.” Moran’s fingers tightened again in Sherlock’s hair. “When I saw what was left of him, I knew at least I’d done what he asked. And then this bastard shows up again. Alive.”

_John, tell him. Tell him to kill me. Just tell him what he wants to hear so he’ll let you leave. John, what has any of this meant if you die? If I still can’t save you?_

Sherlock’s muscles were trembling from the strain of keeping still as he knelt.  His heart was pounding in his ears, and his mind raced through scenario after scenario as he tried to judge which one would give John the best chance of surviving. 

John’s hands clenched into fists, then unclenched. His eyes kept flitting from Sherlock to Moran.

“What do you want?” John asked calmly.

“You’re not going to like it, Johnny. But you’re a soldier. I think you can understand.” Moran released his grip on Sherlock’s hair, and he took something small and shiny out of his pocket.  He leaned down quickly, his gun still at Sherlock’s temple, his eyes still watching John, and he placed the handcuff keys in Sherlock’s left hand.

“Unlock them. Then we can finish this,” he growled.

It took Sherlock mere seconds to unlock the cuffs behind his back and then drop them at Moran’s feet.

“I know what you expect me to do, Colonel Moran. Will you follow through on your orders if I comply?”

Moran’s lip twitched, and his eyes narrowed. Nothing else. Sherlock couldn’t allow himself to look at John right now; he had to maintain eye contact with Moran, challenge him, deflect attention as much as possible from John.

“What are you….,” John’s voice wavered; “are you going to make him kill himself?”

Neither Sherlock nor Moran responded. Neither one looked in John’s direction.

“Answer me, God damn you!  Is this why I’m here?”  John was breathing harder, beginning to lose control.

“Jesus Christ, this isn’t a fucking GAME!” The last word echoed in the still room.

At this, Moran turned to face John. He raised his handgun to the level of John’s heart.

“Since when?” He took a few steps closer to John. “When was anything with the two of them ever more than a game? Did you think you were different? Do you think I was? Well, get over it, Johnny Boy.  You’re a piece on a board. I don’t think you even rate as high as a puzzle to him.”

Sherlock watched John square his shoulders and lift his chin while Moran searched the worn face, the haunted blue eyes.  Moran tilted his own head thoughtfully. “You know, Sherlock, I think he’d rather have the bullet. You might want to reconsider.”

Sherlock’s breath hissed as he fought the urge to shout. Instead, he studied the taut line of Moran’s arm, the angle of his stance.  

_How close could I get before he pulled the trigger? How quick are John’s reflexes?_

_Where the hell are Mycroft’s legions of armed men?_

“No, Moran. You’ve got it wrong.  I’m not the one with the death wish. And neither is Sherlock.”John’s voice was calm but firm. Sherlock marveled at –actually permitted himself to relish for a moment- the defiance in John’s expression. “You can kill him. You can kill me. It won’t make any difference, will it?”

There was a visible tremor in Moran’s jaw muscles as John continued.  “ _He_ can’t understand it; nobody else can understand it. Only I can. And you know that, don’t you? Because only the two of us know what hell really feels like.”  John turned his head and looked into Sherlock’s eyes. “Hell feels like being left behind. Alone.”

Sherlock thought he felt his heart stop. 

Moran let out a low, growling laugh. “Are you trying to break my heart, now? Christ, you’ve gone soft.” He took a step backward, and without looking, he reached behind him and picked up the kukri knife from the seat of the chair.

He held it for a moment, eyes still on John, balancing the knife and turning it in his hands before he let it fall to the ground.

He used one foot to slide it in front of Sherlock, and then he reached out suddenly and pulled John between them. Now the gun was at John’s head.

“Pick up the knife, Holmes. Pick it up and use it, or I go ahead with my orders to kill him. And don’t think for a second that it matters to me which one of you dies today.” Moran’s voice was confident, but his face showed the panic and fury beginning to come back to the surface.

“Sherlock, don’t. Don’t touch the damned thing. Please.”

Sherlock’s fingers trembled as he reached for the handle. He blew out a puff of breath, and he brought the blade up to his throat.

“John, please forgive me.” He felt tears stinging his eyes, and he blinked them away, determined not to lose sight of John again.

_Again. Like this._

_Only this time I’m looking up at him, not down._

_This time I can see his eyes._

“Forgive me for all of it, John.” He pressed the knife harder against his own jugular.

The anger in Moran’s voice was even stronger, now.  “Shut up and do it, Holmes. Or do you need me to count to three?”

John’s face filled with panic. “Sherlock, wait! For God’s sake, please just…. Please, stop!  You have to…. You have to at least let me say it. At least let me tell you…” John seemed to fight back a sob. “Because I never had a chance to say the words…”

Despite his best efforts, Sherlock couldn’t keep the tears from obscuring his vision. He closed his eyes and focused on the sound of John’s voice.

“Sherlock Holmes….,” John took a long, deep breath before continuing; “ _Vatican Cameos_.”

Before John had uttered the last syllable, Sherlock dropped the knife and threw himself face-down on the worn carpet.

_Explosion just outside the door._

_Smoke in the air, fragments of wood falling, debris, men shouting from the corridor._

_John’s body on top of him, shielding him. Protecting him again._

For an absurd moment, he found he could only focus on the warmth of John’s body and the scent of soap, wool, and light, nervous perspiration.

_John._

Then a howl of rage from above, and John’s body was dragged up and away.

Sherlock pushed up off of the floor to see Moran straddling John, holding him by the throat with one hand.  The hand that had been pointing a gun seconds ago was empty and mangled.  There were burn marks along the forearm and shrapnel from the doorframe sticking out of the shoulder.

Just outside, men in riot gear were kicking down what remained of the door.

Despite Moran’s injury, he was still more powerful and much bigger than John.  He held John down at arm’s length, determined to squeeze the life from him.

“Tell him…,” Moran growled, “When you see him….. tell him I finished it…”

John’s hand reached out to the side, and his fingers found the handle of the kukri knife.

And then Sherlock watched as the blade made a low, swift arc through the air.

It ended up lodged deep in Moran’s straining, muscular neck.

A cascade of deep red flowed down Moran’s torso, gushing in time with his slowing pulse.

_So much blood._

_So much blood on John._

Sherlock launched himself toward them and used his arms and shoulder to push Moran’s crumpling body away.

The blood was everywhere, now, covering John's chest and waist, dripping from his fingertips, pooling around him.

For an instant, Sherlock had the ghastly vision of  John slipping away from him right there in the room.  John falling, drowning in a rising sea of blood.

The door finally gave way, and Mycroft's men rushed inside.  A pair of hands took Sherlock by the shoulders and began to pull gently.

“NO!” Sherlock shouted, louder than he’d imagined he could.

He grabbed the lapels of John’s jacket, pulled John up, and held on so hard that his knuckles began to turn white.

John put his hands on Sherlock’s arms. “It’s all right… It’s all right, now… you’re safe, Sherlock. You’re fine.”

Sherlock let out a half-choked noise that was something between a sob and a laugh. “John.  John, I don’t know –“

He bent down and pressed his lips to John’s. 

_I love you, John._

_I’m so, so sorry._

John struggled free and pushed Sherlock away.

“Sherlock…”

A pang of fear and pain shot through Sherlock’s heart. 

_God, What have I done?_

“I’m sorry, John… I... I shouldn’t have done that.”

“No, you shouldn’t,” John said. He reached underneath the collar of his own shirt and pullied out a silver, blunt-tipped wire.  “At least.  not whilst your brother is still listening.”

He snapped the square end off of it, and then used both hands to bring Sherlock’s face close to his own.

“You listen to me. I will never, EVER, forgive you for what you did, Sherlock. Do you understand?”

Sherlock nodded. His head was swimming.

"I almost didn't come here. I told Mycroft to go to hell and take you with him."

John swallowed hard. He squeezed his eyes closed, as if he were trying to shut out the most painful thoughts.

“But I decided I was going to kill Moran if I could.. or die. It didn't matter anymore. But if I lived, I was going to walk away, Sherlock. I promised myself I was going to leave you alone like you left me ."  

Another gasping sob escaped Sherlock's lips.  

John didn't open his eyes.

"Only, I can't do it. ... I can't do it, now...."  He let out a ragged sigh. "Christ…. Sherlock....You’re here. You’re alive.”

John pulled him into an angry, frantic kiss.

_Forgive me, John._

_Please._

_One more miracle._

_Just for me._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to homosociallyyours for suggestions and help!


End file.
